Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Libby tugged at the hem of her dress, feeling like an imposter as she entered the Grand Pavilion.
The charity casino night venue was exactly as pretentious as its name suggested—all marble columns, crystal chandeliers, and waitstaff carrying trays of champagne that probably cost more per glass than her daily Herald rate.
"Stop fidgeting," Jane whispered beside her. "You look amazing."
"I look like someone playing dress-up," Libby muttered, eyeing her sister's elegant emerald gown with unconcealed envy. Jane moved through the space with natural grace, while Libby felt like she might knock over a priceless vase with every step.
The dress—midnight blue with a subtle shimmer that Jane had insisted "made her skin glow"—was undeniably beautiful.
But Libby couldn't shake the feeling that everyone could tell it wasn't hers, that she was just a small-town reporter playing at belonging in this world of Boston elite.
Worse, even in her tallest heels it was still a little too long.
"There's Chase," Jane said, her voice maintaining professional composure though Libby didn't miss how her sister's posture straightened slightly.
Across the glittering room, Chase Bingley looked surprisingly at ease in his tuxedo, his usual coaching intensity transformed into relaxed charm as he chatted with a group of donors. When he spotted Jane, his conversation faltered mid-sentence.
"He's got hearts in his eyes like a cartoon character," Libby said.
"Hush," Jane replied, though she didn't deny it. "I'm going to say hello. Will you be alright?"
"I'll observe," Libby said, accepting a champagne flute from a passing server. "Professional distance and all that."
Jane squeezed her hand before crossing the room, immediately getting absorbed into Chase's circle.
Libby downed her champagne faster than intended—nerves—and grabbed another when the waiter circled back.
The bubbles went straight to her head, but at least it made the overwhelming opulence feel slightly less intimidating.
She was looking for a good vantage point near the entrance when she saw him.
Liam D'Arcy walked into the ballroom and Libby's brain suffered a complete system failure.
The man was devastating in formal wear. His tuxedo fit as if it had been painted onto his athletic frame by an artist with a very specific fantasy about broad shoulders and narrow hips.
His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, emphasizing the sharp architecture of his face—all angles and shadows and those startlingly intense eyes that were currently scanning the room with cool assessment.
Libby took another sip of champagne and promptly walked into a waiter.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry—" she began, watching in horror as his tray tilted.
Strong hands caught the tray before it could crash, steadying it with the same precise control he showed on ice. Liam was suddenly right there, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, which absolutely should not have made her stomach flip.
"Ms. Bennet-Cross," he said, releasing the tray once the waiter had control. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," she managed, her voice embarrassingly breathless. "Just... not used to these heels. I'm not drunk."
His eyes dropped briefly to the empty champagne flute in her hand, and she could have sworn she saw amusement flicker across his features. "The champagne here is stronger than most expect."
He signaled to a passing waiter and a moment later pressed a crystal glass of water into her hands.
All she could do was stare at him.
An elegant woman in shocking pink materialized at Liam's elbow.
She had that specific brand of preserved beauty that came from excellent genes and even better aesthetics treatments—sharp cheekbones, perfect blonde highlights, predatory smile.
Somewhere north of fifty but fighting it with everything money could buy.
Her eyes swept over Libby with the kind of assessment that catalogued everything from her dress to her drug-store mascara in under two seconds.
"Liam, darling, you're finally here!" She air-kissed him with practiced precision. "Your mother said you might skip it this year."
"Kate," Liam acknowledged with perfect politeness that somehow conveyed distance. "I didn't realize the Bruins organization was attending."
"Oh, I'm here in a personal capacity. Your mother and I have that charity board meeting next week, and she insisted I come see how the Steel Foundation does things.
" Kate's laugh tinkled like breaking glass.
"And this must be the little reporter everyone's talking about!
How brave of you to cover such a demanding beat.
All those complicated statistics must be so challenging for someone from. .. where was it? Springfield?"
"Yes, we small-town folks struggle with numbers above ten," Libby replied sweetly. "We have to take off our shoes to count higher."
Liam made a sound that might have been a cough.
Kate's smile sharpened. "How charming. That dress is so interesting—vintage? I love how some girls can make last season's sales work. The Davenport Foundation is always looking to support eco-friendly initiatives."
"Kate," Liam said, his tone carrying a warning.
"What? I'm being friendly!" Kate protested with false innocence before sailing away.
Libby grabbed another champagne from a passing tray.
"That's your third," Liam observed.
"Are you counting my drinks?"
"I notice patterns. It's what I do." He paused. "There's food in the side salon if you need something solid."
Was Liam D'Arcy actually being... considerate? The champagne was definitely affecting her judgment.
"Libby!" Gray Wickham appeared, flashing his megawatt smile, though she noticed a subtle sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the perfect climate control. "You look absolutely stunning. D'Arcy, didn't expect to see you mixing with the common people."
Liam's expression cooled several degrees. "Wickham."
"Come on, Libby," Gray said, taking her elbow. "Let me show you the real party. The high-roller tables are in the other room." He signaled a waiter. "Two of your top-shelf whiskeys—put it on the Steel's tab, they won't mind."
Libby raised an eyebrow at his presumption, but Gray just shrugged with practiced charm. "Perks of being the enemy—they can't be inhospitable during a charity event."
As he guided her away, Libby glanced back to see Liam watching them go, his expression unreadable.
The side room was even more opulent, with serious-faced dealers running poker tables where the buy-ins started at numbers that made Libby's eyes water. She recognized several team owners, a few celebrities, and enough accumulated wealth to solve Springfield's budget crisis ten times over.
"Come on, one hand," Gray insisted, pulling out a chair at one of the tables. "Live a little."
"I don't really play poker," Libby protested.
"Even better—beginner's luck!" Gray's phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. He ignored it, but Libby noticed his jaw tighten. "Besides, it's all for charity. Tax write-off for these people."
A Portland player appeared at Gray's shoulder. "That guy from the card room was looking for you."
A faint red tint appeared across Gray's cheekbones. "I'll find him later," he said with easy charm, though his hand tightened slightly on his glass.
The player shrugged and moved off. Gray's phone buzzed again.
"Everything okay?" Libby asked.
"Of course," Gray said. "You know what? You should definitely play. I'll stake you—just for fun."
Before she could protest, he was pushing chips toward her. The dealer—expression professionally blank—began shuffling. Libby looked at the chips, trying to calculate their value, but the denominations weren't clearly marked and the champagne was making everything slightly fuzzy.
"I really shouldn't—"
"Libby, darling!" An older woman with diamonds the size of quail eggs settled into the seat beside her. "I'm Vivian Lodge—call me Vivi—and I've been dying to meet you. My husband owns the Bruins, and we're all fascinated by your fresh perspective on hockey journalism."
As Vivi chattered, the cards were dealt. Libby tried to focus, but between the champagne, Vivi's overwhelming perfume, and Gray's increasingly tense energy as his phone continued buzzing, she could barely follow the game.
"Oh, just go all in, dear," Vivi advised. "It makes things so much more exciting!"
Libby looked at her cards—two queens, that seemed good?—and pushed her chips forward. "Sure, why not? It's for charity."
She won.
Then she won again.
And again.
Someone's wife—a beautiful redhead dripping in diamonds—had appeared and was running her fingers along Gray's shoulders while her husband remained oblivious at the roulette wheel.
"Listen, Libby, now that you're rich, maybe you can pick up the tab on that dinner we discussed?
" Gray joked, but there was a hard glint in his eyes as he watched her accumulating chips.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Steel's PR director appeared with a photographer. "Let's get a photo of our high-stakes heroes! All proceeds to the children's hospital, of course."
That's when Libby noticed the digital display behind their table showing the current pot value.
$100,000.
The room tilted slightly.
"Wait," she said faintly. "These chips... what denomination..."
"Smile!" the photographer commanded.
The flash went off as Libby stared in horror at the mountain of chips in front of her. She'd been playing with thousand-dollar chips, not the tens and twenties she'd assumed. The "few hands for charity" had turned into a six-figure commitment she absolutely could not afford.
"Our newest philanthropist!" the PR director announced. "Ms. Bennet-Cross from the Herald, showing up Boston's elite with a $100,000 donation!"